


Lachesis

by WroughtBetwixt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Death, Gen, Happy Ending, LGBTQ Character of Color, Magical Tattoos, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Second Person, Parent Death, Sad with a Happy Ending, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WroughtBetwixt/pseuds/WroughtBetwixt
Summary: You are born with a number on your wrist. As time goes by, the number rises.





	Lachesis

You were a difficult pregnancy, your mother says, but you were worth it.

The only thing no one can really understand is the small tattoo on your wrist, there from birth: a single, solitary black 1.

* * *

When you’re three years old, the single line turns into the number 2.

* * *

Your mother never tells anyone about the tattoo, except your father. She teaches you to keep it hidden. You cover it with long sleeves, fashion accessories, make up. No one ever catches on. It’s probably for the better; you never meet anyone else with a strange tattoo, and so you assume that you’re just a freak of nature. Who would want to be friends with someone who has a shapeshifting tattoo? Wouldn’t a scientists just want to dissect you? Study you?

Over the years, the number on your wrist slowly climbs up. But the time you’re a teenager, it’s a 7. You’re fourteen when it turns to 8, just after you and your father get into a car accident. You make it. Your father does not.

* * *

It’s two years later that your mother remarries, after a whirlwind romance. 

Your stepfather is a truck driver. He seems like a really nice guy; he makes your mother laugh, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s not all that wealthy or anything. Your father left you plenty of money when he died, so your future is set. They can focus on just being happy, without having to worry about your college or anything else. 

Up until that point, the number remained 8. The day after your mother and stepfather come back from their honeymoon, it turns into 9. You brush it off. You’ve never figured out what the numbers mean, and it doesn’t really seem to matter all that much. But the number keeps climbing. By the time the year is over, it’s 20. You wish there was someone you could ask about it. Someone to talk to. You’ve been feeling under the weather lately, and no one can really put their finger on why. It can’t be anything dangerous. You’re still alive, after all, and it’s allergy season. But sometimes, you worry that the strange mark is making you sick.

* * *

You’re seventeen, and on your way home from the library, you get grazed by a speeding car.

Your mother takes you to the doctor; with the make up smudged off your wrist, you see the number turn into 21.

It’s then that you understand.

* * *

The police station is quiet. When the chief calls you back, their words boom across the room like a roll of thunder.

You hang your head and go into their office. You’re shaking. 

Despite their powerful voice, the tall, heavy-set officer speaks gently to you. “I’m Chief Garcia. If I understand what you told the front desk, you think your stepfather is trying to kill you. Can you tell me why you think this?”

For the first time in your life, you show someone your tattoo. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I’ve had this tattoo ever since I was born.” You swallow, glancing into their eyes. The expression there is curious, but kind. “I almost died in the womb. When I was born, it was 1. The number kept changing as I got older. I didn’t realize what it meant until I connected the number to times I almost died. It was 8 before my stepfather moved in a year ago. Now it’s...”

“21,” Chief Garcia acknowledges. “That’s quite a leap.”

“I know this is impossible to believe. But it’s true. You... you could shoot at me, or something. To prove it. Please, I’ll do anything. I just want someone to believe me.”

Chief Garcia chuckles a little. “That won’t be necessary,” they reply. Rolling up their sleeve, they show you their wrist, and you stare in hope and wonder. There, etched on the skin in stark black, is the number 1457. “I believe you.”

* * *

On your stepfather’s laptop, they find evidence that he’d looked up what would happen to your inheritance money if you were to die, and ways to poison someone without anyone noticing.

A blood test confirms traces of the poison in your system. 

You’re there when Chief Garcia drags your stepfather away, and they give you a smile. You smile back.

You sleep soundly that night. The number doesn’t change again for a very, very long time.


End file.
